Shades of Yesterday
by Mr. Chaos
Summary: Before a hero can be a myth...they must become a legend. This is the story of one legend
1. Like all people

_Author's Note: First off, I do not own HEROES in any way, shape, or form._

_Second, this story is a spin off from ELSEWHERE. While you do not have to read ELSEWHERE to understand it, you should anyway because it is good._

&&&

Like all people, he started his life helpless.

Small, confused, torn from the world he had known, he's cries had broken through the room. A cry that all parents wait to hear.

For the first few hours…all had been well. His father had handed out cigars, filled glasses with fine brandy, and celebrated the birth of his son, of his heir. While his wife lay in bed, recovering from the long hours of labor, he boasted of all the child he'd sired would do.

But as the house had gone to sleep, the man could not contain himself. He had been told he could not see his son, not until they were sure he would survive the night. The doctors did not want the parents becoming attached, should the child be sickly and not make it. But he could not wait till morning to view the boy, to see what his seed had wrought.

And so he had risen from his bed, and made his way to the nursery. He had set up his child in his own wing of the mansion, so that the boy could have his own place to call his own. All the rooms were empty, save for this one at the moment, made up of the finest baby furniture from Europe. The fine oak changing table sat in the corner, linen diapers laid in a pile. To his right the rocker where the wetnurse slept, ready at a moment's notice when the child awoke with an empty belly. A cabinet, filled with silk baby gowns, would finally be used tomorrow. Before him the bassinet, made of elegant maple wood, smoothed to perfection so that no burr or splinter would every mar the boy's soft skin.

And there he was, the boy he had longed to see. Clothed only in a diaper, ivory rattle in his hands as he slept.

"You will do great things, my son. You will bring greatness to me."

As if called by his father's words, the boy let out a yawn, eyes blinking open for the first time.

"Dear God…"

For from the babe's eyes came a glowing red light. Like the fires of hell they were, bathing the darkness with their color. The man stumbled back, and within him suddenly, his emotions changed. Where once there had been love, now only hate bloomed.

"Monster…you birth me a monster."

Never did he place blame upon himself. It was all others. His wife, the doctor, God…all would taste his anger first.

He could not allow anyone to see this…let word get out of his tragedy…let it stain his name.

He could not do the deed himself, however. He could not kill the child, allow his soul to be tarnished.

Better to let another suffer that fate.

Coward.

Thus it was the wetnurse he turned to, that he roused from slumber, and gave the dark deed too. Told her to take the child out at that moment, kill it and leave it in the desert. Let the vultures finish what he himself could not.

And do this she did. Still dressed in her uniform, she left the mansion, the whimpering babe in her arms. She could not afford to anger the master…he had agreed to pay her for her duties and let her take leave. The wealth that would come from this would be well worth the darkness.

It seems the hint of gold is enough to tempt even the most steady of hearts.

And so, it is for this reason that she found herself in the desert, only but for the horse and the child, faced with the task at hand.

"Forgive me."

But when it came to plunging the knife into his chest, spilling his day old blood on the sand…it became clear that gold could not motivate all things to occur.

"God forgive me."

She placed the babe upon the warming sands, without second look driving her horse make to the mansion, to collect her fee and be on her way. Better to let the child die by the elements then by her own hand, I imagine her thought was.

Coward.

The sun was rising now, and with it, the screams of the abandoned child grew fiercer. It would not be long now, not long before he brought the beasts that hide in the rocks till shadow came, brought them to an easy meal. For his flesh was plump and soft, and he was defenseless as they came.

He would leave this world as he had entered it: small, confused, torn from the world he had known.

That…is how it should have been.

But God…it seems…had other plans.

From the west the sound of hooves could be heard, though the child knew not what they were. All he knew was depression and pain, of misery at his fate. He cried out for his mother even as the horse came to a stop, its ride dismounting.

"What do we have here…how did you get here little one." 

A priest, a man of the cloth, found in that horrid place, snatched the baby from his sandy tomb and wrapped him in his shirt.

"How did you get here?"

The priest looked up, perhaps wondering if the babe had fallen from Heaven. He could not be for sure, the Bible talked of stranger miracles.

But then, the child opened his eyes, and that red glow lit the holy man's face.

Where the newborn had found only hatred, here, in the one that should have feared him most, he found no question, no denouncement.

"Come along, little one…I will find something to soothe your belly."

&&&

The old man paused, looking out over the palpate, all around him sat in awe, hanging on every word.

"And thus…" He said, "…Father Ellis took the baby, and raised him as his own. And from the baby grew a child, one of glowing eyes and a heart filled with the Lord. For Father Ellis read to him every day the scriptures, and taught him of God's good graces. And he named the child Isaiah…"

"Praise be to God!" All knew this name…and this story. Its telling was tradition.

"Yes, praise be to God." The old minister said. "For where many had seen evil, Father Ellis saw only innocence. Where his father would have shown him only greed and material want, Father Ellis showed him the joy of the Earth, of what could be brought forth by only your own hands."

"Hallelujah!" Someone in the back cried.

"But it was not just Bible verses young Isaiah learned. No…Father Ellis knew that the boy would need much more then this to survive. For the Father had set his church alone in the hot New Mexico desert, where he could study God's will at peace. It was a haven for lost travelers…and had become a home for young Isaiah.

"But the desert, like life, is harsh. There are dangers there…and one can not rely upon only the Lord for safety!" The churchgoers murmured. "I speak the truth, I speak the truth! God wants us to help ourselves and each other, to do what is right and what is needed on our own. It is for this reason he gave us free will, and for this reason that Father Ellis taught Isaiah all he knew.

"By the priest's hand, the boy learned the ways of the knife and of the gun. And it seemed that God had given him those red eyes, the ones that brought his near death when he was but hours old, for this reason. For I say to you, Isaiah saw what no man, let alone boy, could see. He could strike a fly by knifepoint from across the congregation hall. Gun in hand, he could shoot a coyote a mile away, before the beast could even catch his scent. Darkness was like the blazing noon, and in brilliant sun he could see without need to squint. These were gifts of God…gifts others saw as evil!"

"Fools!" A woman shouted.

"Animals!" A man called out.

"Monsters!" A young woman cried, clutching her own baby tight to her breast.

The preacher nodded. "yes…yes my friends…all of this was true. But it did not matter to young Isaiah. For he had the love of his father and the safety of the church…that was all he would need.

"And thus the boy became a man, following in his father's footsteps. It was Father Ellis himself that gave him the blessing, gave him the cross and dubbed him a holy man. He would carry on as the father had, in peace and solitude with the Lord.

"But…but like all good things, my children…like each and every paradise…the greed within man's heart…ruin ever the purest of things."


	2. 25 years later

It had been 25 years since his birth.

25 years since he'd been abandoned.

25 years with the only father he had ever known.

He'd begun his day as he had always, for as long as he could remember. First rising from his bed, then kneeling before it, hands clasped as he thanked God for all He had given him. Then to the small well his father had built within the church, where he would clean the dust of sleep from his eyes and prepare himself for the morning hunt.

Journeying alone into the wild, he would hunt the creatures that hid from the morning sun, seeking fresh meat to restock their supplies. Today would not be a hunt for a few of the lingering desert plants that could be eaten. No, he would be gone much longer, seeking out much larger prey, to provide for them for several months.

The hunt this day had been profitable. With his last bullet, he had taken down a large bisen, whose meat, when dried, would provide for him and his father for months.

Returning to the church that served as his only home, he sought out his father, to seek aid in bringing the animal back from the wilderness. Placing his hat on the hook near the back door and removing his boots, as his father had taught him to do, he made his way to his father's office, expecting to find him.

But the office was empty. The first sign for Isaiah that all was not right.

Harsh whispers filled the halls as he made his way towards the congregation hall. Not large or elaborate, the room was humble, a testament to the upbringing Isaiah had received. Forward he moved, his steps silent, as he made his way forward, peering around the doorframe and towards the main section of the church.

There stood his father, facing towards him, told and proud. The old man would not let his age be a weakness, make him seem frail or pathetic. He stood tall, even if it hurt his back, his eyes shone clear even as his vision grew blurry. He would face any threat that came his way.

For there were wolves within the church.

5 men stood with their backs to Isaiah, arcing around the priest and trapping him in place. 4 were large, their backs like marble walls, their clothing pulled tight against their flesh. Hair knotty and greasy, hanging in clumps along their shoulders. Their fists were like battering rams, or hewn rock hammers. Without seeing their faces, Isaiah knew their souls to be as black as the night sky.

The 5th, sandwiched between the two, was the least honorable of all. Not for the blood that laid on his hands, no…he had never harmed by his own device. But it was by his word, so many had suffered. The worst of monsters, those too cowardly to do what they commanded of others.

The small man was talking to Father Ellis, his tone cordial yet covering a darker threat. Isaiah stayed hidden, listening carefully to all the man spoke of.

The small man demanded that Father Ellis make payment to him, a fee of some sort. Father Ellis refused, gesturing around him, asking what he could possibly have to give with an empty church. The small man pointed to a golden cross on the altar, but Father Ellis refused him.

"Relics of God…are not to be bartered with"

That is what he told the small man. The larger men chuckled slightly at this, even as their speaker told Father Ellis that times had changed since he'd gone out to the desert. That a new messenger of God had come, and that God asked, through this new man, for all others to work with him. The small man said proudly that this new messenger had stated that only he should hold relics such as the golden cross, as only he could insure they remain pure.

Father Ellis smiled, his words cool.

"Then he is not the messenger of my God."

Rage filled the small man's heart, and with a word, committed yet another cowardly act. The four men descended upon Father Ellis, fists and feet breaking against his body like the waves on cliff rock. Relentless, they drove home each strike, the sound of shattered bones and splattered blood creating a symphony of torture and death.

Isaiah stepped forward, eyes flashing as he readied to aid his father.

But Father Ellis looked at him in that moment, through their shared look, the message clear:

"Do not interfere…do not die now."

Isaiah turned his head, wanting to deny his father's silent plea. But when had he hever denied his father? What else could he do but watch…watch as the small man handled the golden cross from the altar, sullying it with his mere touch. Watch as his father refused to scream, even as the 4 brutes snapped his legs to kindling. Watch as the small man poured the sacred oils upon the altar, and striking a match, set it ablaze.

Father Ellis lifted his head defiantly, even as the altar slowly turned to ash, even as his own wrecked body leaked the last of his lifeblood on the floor.

"Death is your fate…for denying my master." The small man stated.

Father Ellis smiled calmly, bold to the last. He did not speak the words, but Isaiah heard them well.

"Death is your fate…for letting my son live."

CRACK!

Isaiah's body was timber, hard and still, as he saw the cross, the relic he'd prayed to since he was a child, shatter his father's skull. 

Rushing out of the church, watching the building collapse and turn to rumble, the last sound they heard, before only the crackle of burning lumber filled their ears, was that of a heartbroken roar, a bellow both long and loud and filled with pain. The 4 brutes stepped back, as the small man fell to his knees as if pierced in the heart by a saber. It was a wound none of them would recover from, but they paid little heed. Now was not the time for weakness.

They had other things to attend to.

Their master waited.

&&&

Hours after the golden cross had been taken…a new cross took its place.

Made of sticks held by string, it would not adorn an altar, nor be a place of worship. It was to mark a grave…the grave of the only father Isaiah Ellis had ever known. Dug with his own hands, now bloodied and filthy, Isaiah had laid his father to rest in the desert sand.

Moving with purpose, Isaiah moved listlessly to a special spot…a spot his father had told him to create, all those years ago. Hand diving into the sand, he found the edge of the wooden door, and with a heave, revealed the hidden alcove.

Inside, his most prized possessions. The first Bible his father had given him…the blanket he'd been wrapped in the day he was left in the desert. Here was where he placed the small cross he wore around his neck. Here he placed his holy garments, with shaking hands and broken nerves. Into that hole he placed the man he had once been, and buried him near his father.

From that dark hole, he pulled out his new self. A self in the form of weapons…of violence…of guns. So too were the dark clothing he'd hidden there…praying to the Lord he'd never need them. The black jeans and boots, black shirt and bandana. That black hat and duster, his mourning covering him like a second skin. As he dressed himself, he felt himself tremble, but did not give in until he at last drew forth the guns…his father's guns…and impregnated their chambers with the seeds of death. Only then did he bow his head and weep.

He would leave this home behind. He would bury his past, his dreams, his father's hopes. He would forgo all his father had taught him, all the lessons he had learned happily at his feet.

He would go forth. He would hunt down the men that had killed his father. He would make their deaths last, make them beg for the bullet, and only when they think it was over would he grant them release. Only then would he move onto the next. His pain would be theirs, his misery their family's. He would unleash his rage upon their town, and he would leave them with his dark message of hate. He would forsake all his father had wanted for him…to insure his vengeance.

At that moment, Isaiah knew his fate.

He would become a murderer.

And all he could do was cry.


	3. A monster dwelled in the desert

"A monster dwelled in the desert."

The priest looked at the congregation, his quiet yet passionate.

"Whispers, rumors, hushed comment of the creature that lay hidden out there, silent and passive. A beast…in the shape of a man…tamed by another man…taught to be docile.

"But it wasn't.

"Oh yes…it did not attack, it did not kill. But…it was not docile. It was waiting. Waiting for the day that someone foolish…someone stupid…provoked it. For only then…would it unleash its wrath.

"A monster…dwelled in the desert."

The priest eyes grew hazy, as he looked out, far into the past.

"And the founders of this town… provoked it."

&&&

Father Timothy Roselyn, founder of this town's only church, had been awaken once more from his warm bed to the cool desert night. Eyes still fuzzy with sleep, he was brought by the sheriff to main street.

His duty was simple…deliver the last rights to yet another soul.

Man before him was close to death. Much longer had been his suffering. Fingers and toes hacked out, the wounds cruelly sealed by glowing lead to prevent him from dying too soon. Castrated, this wound too sealed, but not before his assailant had ground rock salt into hole where once his genitals had been.

His tongue lay on the ground next to him, bloated and already gathering flies. Gaze had been shoved into his mouth, forcing him to breath through his broken nose, every sniff agony. Hot wax was drizzled over face, sealing his eyes shut and leaving him in a world of darkness. All of this did little to hide the bruises and blood that coated his body, leaving him a patchwork of agony.

"We found him…just like the other three."

Father Roselyn nodded, hand ghosting along the large man's forehead.

"How much time?"

The sheriff sighed, hands shaking slightly. He told the priest that the man before them had little time left…and hour, maybe two.

"But there is a chance then…longer then the others…"

The sheriff agreed, but told Father Roselyn that the reason they'd called for him was just to be safe…should tragedy strike.

And it did.

In the form of a bullet directly in the man's forehead, brain matter staining the hardpacked ground.

The priest look up, staring at the lone figure that held vigil upon the roof of the local bank, the spark of his cigar and the glow of his eyes letting them all know the man known in this town as The Horsemen of Death…had claimed yet another soul.

"Isaiah Ellis….you murderer!"

For seven weeks, Isaiah let the town rest in simpering ease. Let them mourn the loss of four of their own, something they had never given him. Never did they realize he was always watching them, always observing their every step, their every move. Wait…

Wait…

All but one finally felt a calm descend upon their heart, let their mind ignore the fear that had once gripped them so during the blood soaked point in time. All but one believed that perhaps…the Horsemen of Death had rode on.

All…but…one.

The small man…the coward.

For him…the seven weeks were little more then torture. He had known, the instant the first man had died, that it was by Isaiah's hand. It was he who told his master, the lord of this town, that the son of Father Ellis now hunted them.

The master had promised him protection, that Isaiah would be caught and dealt with.

But the small man's faith…had been pushed to thread bare, when it came to the master and promises.

And so, for seven weeks, the small man stewed in his own fear. It coated him, seeped into his skin and ate away at all that had once brought him joy. The money he was paid he could not rid himself fast enough, for each coin, each note would weigh him down all the more when he finally needed to run. His home was now a minefield, hidden dangers in each room…where could Isaiah be hiding? His nimble young wife, purchased by the master for his pleasure, now only served as a potential betrayer…one he could not send away for fear of pushing her into Isaiah's arms, nor keep should she have already been in his grasp.

For seven weeks, he lived in fear.

On that final Friday, he dared to finally hope that the Horsemen was gone.

Four hours later, he laid dead, body mutilated beyond recognition.

Isaiah calmly cleaned the blood from his hunting knife, placing the small man's tablecloth over his dead body. Picking up a glass of water, he said a soft prayer before gently sprinkling it over the body.

"As Father Roselyn is not here…may God forgive your sins. May your soul find the peace it deserves. So is the way of God."

He threw the glass at the body, listening to the broken glass beneath his boots as he lit up a cigar.

"But personally…tell Satan that Isaiah Ellis said hello."

"Why so much anger?" Called out Father Roselyn. Isaiah drew his guns, pointing them right at the holy man. "That is not the way of the Lord…the way of your father."

"My father is dead." Was Isaiah's response. "What he cared about is little concern. Seeing that he is avenged…that is all I care about."

Father Roselyn was not swayed, however. He could not let this killer go free, escape into the night. His only hope was to convince him to stop, to give in.

"Did not Jesus forgive those that crucified him? Did he not understand they knew not what they did? He forgave them, Isaiah, as we all should those who hurt us, as they do not know better."

Isaiah seemed moved, for a moment. He removed the cigar from his mouth, turning his attention fully on the priest.

"Did not God kill the first born of Egypt when Rames ordered the death of the Hebrew first born? Did God not send fire and brimstone down upon Sodom and Gomorra? Who should we listen too, preacher…the Father…or the Son?"

"A paradox, my son…for if we listen to the Son, then we listen to both you and Christ."

"I do not claim to be even near them, preacher. I am merely a man."

"Others disagree…or have you not heard your title…the Horsemen of Death, rider of the Apocalypse? Last of the beings held by the fourth seal?"

"A title I never gave myself…though I ask, if I am Death, where are Disease, War, and Famine? Where are my brothers?" Isaiah scoffed at this notion. "If I am Death…I would be more concerned with the 3 next seals…and the Seven Horns."

Father Roselyn knew he was losing him, that Isaiah would soon leave. The sheriff would be here soon with the deputies…ready to bring him in…he needed to stall.

"What now, Isaiah? You've taken your revenge…"

"no." Isaiah answered. "No…this man's master still lives…only when he is dead will I rest."

"You will never kill him."

"And why is that?'

"Because the master of this town is Robert Bishop…the wealthiest man here…"

"And his wealth matters to me?"

"No Isaiah…you will not kill him…because he is your father…your birth father."

There were a million things Father Roselyn expected…the last was for Isaiah to leap out the picture window, where his horse was waiting. In the distance, the sheriff and the posse could be heard, but they were to be too late.

Isaiah would escape.

But not without parting words.

"All the more reason to kill him then."


	4. How far would you go?

"How far would you go to see justice?"

The preacher paused, gathering his thoughts carefully. He wanted to also give his congregation time to consider the question themselves.

"To what means would go to…what sins would you commit? Would you sacrifice everything? Destroy your own soul? Ensure your own death when others came to commit their own sins so that you would pay for yours?

"Evil can not be stopped by others without poisoning said others. It is a cycle of darkness, of sin and death. If one seeks to end an evil, they must accept the most certain possibility that they will be taking on the sins of their own deeds, calling out for others to end their darkness.

"Isaiah knew this fact. He accepted it." The man lifted his head, eyes staring out. "No…he embraced it."

&&&

There is nothing more terrible then a desert storm. It is like staring into Creation and seeing what lay once, before God's hand shaped the Heavens. Lightning cracks. Thunder deafens. The sky rips open and it seems as if the ocean itself spills form. The winds grab hold of the sand, sending it up until one can no longer tell where the sky begins and the earth ends.

Glorious chaos.

Like all men that claim power but underneath are cowards, Robert Bishop remained detached from this. In his grand mansion, through heavy glass and gin-clouded eyes, he watched the storm play out. No comfort would he find this night, not in his cold bed next to his colder wife. No…better to observe the storm.

To his left, upon the mantle, the reason for the chill that invaded his bed and wife. A portrait, 25 years old, of a newborn cradled in his mother's arms. Robert dared not look at it, not notice yet again the bright brown eyes that should have been colored to resemble blood.

He was a man that liked power, but loved being removed from pain. And looking at his long dead son was a suffering he did not long for.

"I see you at least kept some sign of my existence."

Robert turned, the lightning bursting out and illuminating the form of the dark man, standing next to the portrait. Red eyes glowed like the pits of Hell as he glared at Robert Bishop, piercing the darkness and the older man's soul.

"Hawkins!"

"The boy can not hear you. Don't worry…he did not taste my fury. He gave you up…they all did, when they learned of why I was here. Would you not let Death pass when he came to your doorstep, demanding entry?"

Robert wished he had gone to bed…for the chill of the bed and his wife were nothing to the chill running down his spine.

"And…that is who you are?"

"Why deny what all seek to label me?" Was Isaiah's response. It had been 25 years since that day, the day his father had been the first to declare him a monster. "And the only question is…how long will I hold off my judgment?"

Robert shrank from the imposing figure that was his son, trying to escape the fate he had sealed the day he had ordered the boy's death. He made pleas, begged for his life…but Isaiah would have none of it.

One father would die to avenge the other.

There would be no need for his guns this night. No, for this is brought forth his hunting knife, long legs eating away the distance, long arms eating up the space, long knife eating away his father's life.

The door's creak pulled Isaiah from his bloodlust, noticing that an hour had gone by, his birth father's mutilated corpse leaking what little blood he had left onto the carpet. Whipping his head, Isaiah saw a new form, along with several other servants, watching him.

Me.

"I will not harm you, Hawkins…but you will not stop me."

I merely looked him in the eye.

"You are his son?" Isaiah nodded. "Then you are master of this house…and we will not betray our master."

"You have no master. Whatever bonds or debts he placed on you, I release them. Do as you see fit. Go."

Several of the servants stared at him before hurrying away, little doubt in my mind to take what treasures they could to support their new lives. I did not leave…no…I merely stood by, waiting for Isaiah to address me.

"What is it that you want, Hawkins?"

"You have saved us from him…we were his slaves, and you have freed us. This town will not react well…they do not view us as worthy of freedom." 

His eyes were like rubies then, but I still held his stare.

"They will learn differently. With the master of this town dead…"

"You killed the master?" I was shocked beyond comprehension.

"He lays at my feet, Hawkins."

My confusion must have been etched on my face, as Isaiah looked at me queerly. "Your father was the master…3 years ago. But he was driven out…and the new master now rules."

3 years…too long for his biological father to have sent the men that killed his true father.

"New master?"

"Yes, sir."

"Who?"

"Roselyn, sir." I replied. "Father Roselyn."

There are some that say Isaiah Ellis was the son of the devil, his bastard offspring. He proved to me that night why that perhaps was true. His roar was deep and long, with rage and hellfire within it that sent me to my knees.

And just as it stared, it ended, leaving only chilling anger and determination.

"I have been used, Hawkins…used…there is no curse in any language…for this barbarism."

I followed after him as he stormed through the house, leaving Robert Bishop's body to rot.

"Where are you going, sir?"

"To the church of Father Roselyn."

"And what will you do?"

Isaiah looked down at his hunting knife, still stained with his father's tainted blood.

"…show him the wrath of God."


	5. And His Rider Was Death

"I will not waste your time with pleasant words. I will try and explain the grand church of Father Roselyn, only to state that what you see here, in our church, is a far cry from his.

"Every building in this town belonged to the old masters. Our homes. The saloon. The general store. All save for this church.

"It does not sit on the land where Roselyn's church stood. Many have seen this spot, the dark, scorched earth. Many children have asked what happened there."

Father Hawkins paused, jaw working slowly as he returned to that dark day. He did not speak, did not blink, caught in the memory of what had happened.

"I…I will tell you what happened." He said at last.

Everyone in the church held their breath. Before, Father Hawkins had always skipped to the next part, his final meeting with Isaiah…never had he talked of what had happened in the church.

"Death." He stated quietly. "That is what happened. Death."

&&&

"Please open to Psalm 23, line 4. And so it is written: Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil; for you are with me;…"

"…your rod and our staff-" Isaiah called out, interrupting Roselyn, "…they comfort me. Ironic, isn't it? Why should you fear evil, Father Roselyn? You are its greatest ally."

"Isaiah Ellis. You shall not desecrate this place…"

Isaiah lifted his guns in the air, aiming them at the father's head. "You now walk in my shadow, Father. Death has come, as it did to Pharaoh." His great voice, once tempered to preach to people like those around him, was now the harbinger of doom. "You have been deceived! This prophet is false, his words venom. He has taken your wealth, and created this, his grand tomb. For at your door stands me. He has killed my father, used me to eliminate those he fear could overpower him, as he used you. I offer you this chance, rise against him now…before it is too late."

The crowd sat for but a moment, his words still echoing in the opulent chamber, before they burst into laughter and jeers. From the strongest man to the frailest woman; from the children just nursed from their mother's breast to those with children of their own; all mocked Isaiah and his open hand of friendship. Father Roselyn wore a mask of mock pity as he watched on.

"You expected them to side with you, a killer? Yes, I have sent many to their deaths. But it was God's will. God demanded their deaths…you have acted on your own accord."

"And why would God demand my father's death?"

Roselyn waved his hand dismissively at the golden cross that sat on his altar, the one Isaiah had spent a lifetime praying to.

"That?" Isaiah questioned. "All of this…was so you could have a cross?!?"

"No, my child, not at all. I also wanted to eliminate my competition. Your father offered a path to God separate from my own…I could not allow that."

The gunman's eyes flashed red, hand trembling as he sighted in Father Roselyn. "Monster…"

"Monster? You have killed men in cold blood, tortured them till they begged for mercy, all in the name of your father, who would never have asked you to do this? My boy, if there is any monster here, it is you." With a wave of his hand, two of his sentinels lowered a great beam upon the door, locking Isaiah inside. The rest of the town watched on as the brawlers approached him, itching to kill the feared assassin. "And now, my children…" Father Roselyn called out to the congregation, " …you will see the fate of those that do not heed my words, that dare go against me and God. I warned Mr. Ellis to end his violence…he continued. And now violence will return to him."

Isaiah locked eyes with Father Roselyn as two men grabbed him, the third pulled out a long bowie knife. "Let me leave, Father…"

"You can not beg for your life now…you must pay for your sins." He nodded to his men, signaling for them to begin.

Isaiah's eyes went red as he broke free, each hand reaching up and snapping the neck of an attacker. The man with the bowie knife went next, Isaiah dropping to the ground, snatching his guns and firing twice into his chest. From this position he sprung, racing up to the altar, shooting several men that came at him before pouncing on Roselyn, driving the bowie knife into his gut.

"It wasn't my life I was trying to save." Isaiah whispered.

"My…own…" Roselyn laughed weakly. "Ironic…"

Isaiah shook his head. "No…you were always going to die." He ripped the bowie knife free, before slamming it into the holy man's mouth, driving the blade through the back of his throat and into his spine. Roselyn gurgled once…twice…then fell.

The congregation remained quiet as Isaiah closed their preacher's eyes, the dark killer rising up and staring at them. Finally, one dared to stand.

"Thank God for you…you saved us from him…" The man said, the crowd murmuring in agreement. "You will be honored…"

BANG!

The people of the town cried out as Isaiah shot the man dead, red eyes traveling over them. He looked down at his weapons, both barrels having discharged their last bullet.

Isaiah slowly opened his coat, and their blood went cold. For lining his duster were many more guns, each loaded in full and waiting for him to strike. The crowd panicked, rushing the door…only to find the heavy beam still in place, their fear making it impossible for them to organize and lift it.

"And lo I saw a pale horse." Isaiah whispered, drawing two guns from his duster.

Fear made them see what they had been blind to. Isaiah would not offer them forgiveness. For he saw through their lies…saw that they never would have helped him…had never questioned Father Roselyn.

"And his rider was Death." Isaiah continued, pulled the black bandana over his mouth.

And they now too understood his cryptic message to father Roselyn. It had not been Roselyn's life he had offered with his plea.

It had been theirs.

"And he brought Hell with him." Isaiah finished, before marching down the aisle.

BANG!

The tavern owner fell dead, blood staining the pew.

BANG!

Old Pete, feeble by stubborn, killed where he stood.

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

Three ranchers, who had been plotting to tackle Isaiah, to try and relieve him of his weapons, lay piled on the ground.

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

More men fell, their lifeblood staining their Sunday best a macabre crimson.

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

And thus fell the last man…leaving only Isaiah with the women and children.

"Please!" One woman begged, hugging her whimpering child. "Have mercy!"

Isaiah licked his lips, taking in the pitiful sight. Eyes closed, he rolled his head back and forth, teeth grit in frustration.

"Mercy? You hitched your wagon to that murderer's star…and now, now when you must face your sins…you wish for mercy?"

"Kill me if you must…but don't make her watch!" She pleaded.

Jaw working slowly, at long last, Isaiah nodded. "I will grant your request."

The woman began to cry. "Bless you…bless you…"

"Do not ask for my blessing. The wisdom of Father Roselyn still dwells in even these children's hearts…along with your foul blood. Their lives will carry on the memory of this day…of his teachings…and my father's kill will never truly die. "

"They won't…they won't!" The mother made to push her child away towards the door, to make her escape, only for Isaiah to grab the girl and hold her up by her dress.

"How I wish I could believe you." He threw her back down, bones cracking as the little one hit the hardwood. "still, I grant you the mercy I never got…"

He pointed his gun at the little girl's head, pressing the barrel to her skin as a tear ran down his cheek.

"I grant you a quick death."

"NO!" The mother screamed, trying to snatch her child from Death's grasp. Time slowed to a crawl.

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

BANG!


	6. The Church Was Silent

The church was silent.

The congregation, once listening on in rapt fascination, now sat in horror. Some of the children were crying, their mothers working to comfort them, even as they repressed shudders of fear. The men were stock still, the image of Isaiah, his gun to the child's head, flashing over and over in their minds. They all wondered how a man could do that…how anyone could act in such a way and live with himself.

Only the priest knew the irony of that statement.

"A monster dwelled in the desert…" He entoned, "and the founders of the town provoked it. But it was I…that confronted it."

&&&

I had been elected the one to investigate the church.

All of us, each servant, maid, field hand…we were never invited into that church. Only the masters, only the founders could enter it. Thus, it was from the outside that we heard the gunfire, the horrid screams…

Death.

Then nothing. Stillness took the town, and the church went silent.

I had been the only one to have contact with Isaiah…the only one to speak to him and live to see another sunrise. Thus, it was felt that I alone would be able to enter the church and seek answers.

For several long minutes, I considered what to do as I stood by the door. It was shut, most likely held firm by the beam Father Roselyn had installed to keep the servants out, should they revolt.

As I was about to move, I heard the sound of wood, groaning and scrapping, and suddenly the doors were flung open, revealing the bloody carnage inside. My insides churned as I laid eyes upon the blood soaked place of worship, one unable to take a step without having to jump over a body. The pews were overturn, some completely shattered to splinters, the choir books torn asunder, their pages working to absorb the blood upon the hardwood.

And there stood Isaiah, bottle of communion wine in hand, his eyes downcast as he took another swig.

"Close the door." He demanded, before walking towards the altar. 

Doing as he said, I made my way through that horrid place, the memories of that short walk forever burned in my brain. The hiddious stench still lingers on my skin, the sight of all those eyes, frozen forever in terror, staring at me, questioning why I was encroaching on their tomb, chase me in my nightmares.

And Isaiah, standing at the altar, a blasphemous parody of a preacher.

"Have you come for my confession, Hawkins?" Isaiah said softly. His words were not slurred as I expected, nor did they hold the hard edge. Instead, he seemed out of it, as if waking from a dream. "Then allow me to give it to you.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been 3 months since my last confessional. I have killed, Hawkins…I have killed many people…including those around you. I did not enjoy it, I took no pleasure…but I killed them all the same. That man, I shot in the head, watching his brains splatter against the wall. That woman, I beat her with the butt of one pistol until all she could do was babble, and only then did I kill her. Those 3 kids? I murderer them infront of their mother, then killed her too. Each of them I killed, viciously, violently…but never for joy."

Isaiah looked up at me, his body shuddering as he began to cry, great sobs shaking his frame as he held himself to the golden cross on the altar, draping himself over it. He broke down utterly, mourning his actions, of what had been lost.

"I never wanted this!" he screamed. "I never wanted to be this! Why did they have to bother us…why did they have…have to take my father away?" his eyes clenched as he cried. "They took away my father…they let Roselyn kill him. I will never see his smile…hear his kind words…not in this life or the next. I know I will not enter the Pearly Gates…that my soul was long doomed to burn. Perhaps…perhaps I was born to go there. But before I am led to my endless damnation, atleast I know I avenged my father….no…not yet…"

Lifted the bottle, Isaiah looked up at me through red rimmed eyes, jaw quivering as he poured it on the altar.

"This is my confession, Father. I have done terrible things…things I never wanted, but did anyway, to avenge my father. But I can not live like this another day." He pulled out a match and struck it, the wine igniting and setting the altar ablaze. Isaiah grabbed a piece of wood from a pew and used it to light the timbers, the smoke quickly filling the room. "Forgive me…father…I knew not what I did…I just knew not…" He was sobbing again, the last of his vengeance complete.

A church for a church.

"Isaiah!" I cried out as the building burned around us. "We have to go."

"Go…yes…yes…go Hawkins…leave…you are an innocent…" He said sincerely.

"Isaiah!" I shouted, moving to grab him, only for a timber to come crashing down between us.

"I can't." Isaiah whispered as the flames roared. "I must set things right…to ensure you and the rest are not cursed for the sins of this town…I will take them on myself…I will die with them." His eyes glowed in the flames as he looked out, his voice strong again as he spoke. "The Lord is my Shepard, I shall not want. He makes me lie in green pastures; he leads me beside the still waters; he restores my soul. He leads me in right paths, for his name's sake."

"Isaiah!" I screamed as the smoke drove me back.

"Even though I walk through the valley in the shadow of death, I fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff-they comfort me."

"Isaiah!" I cried out from the doorway as the roof began to collapse.

"You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Only goodness adn mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long."

Isaiah looked at me, the red fading from his eyes.

"Amen."

As if it had waited for that moment, the ceil fell, engulfing him in wood and flames, leaving nothing in its wake.

"ISAIAH!"


	7. Tradition

"And so Isaiah died…nearly 80 years ago." Hawkins said. "I have lived 95 years…I have seen many miracles and felt the glory of God's love. But that remains the most clear….

"How do we treat the memory of Isaiah Ellis? For while he has done so much for us, he was not a man to be honored as one would a saint. He sinned…he murdered…he was but a man…nothing more.

"Long I have puzzled over this question, and at last I know the answer." Father Hawkins smiled. "Good people of Kermit, Texas…I say we do not honor Isaiah…but we do not shun him either. Instead, let us remember him…his sins and his triumphs, his pain and his joy. Let us forgive him of his sins, as God forgives all, and let us pray that in death…he found the peace he deserved." Father Hawkins smiled. "Go in God's name."

&&&

"Wonderful sermon." 

Father Hawkins smiled. "Thank you, Noah. It is always wonderful when you can come up here. How is your grandfather doing?"

Noah Bennet smiled, shaking the reverend's hand. "He is well…he is sorry he couldn't come."

"Not all of us near-100-year-olds can move like me." Hawkins laughed. "Are you returning to Odessa?"

"Yes…tomorrow, infact."

"Want to get back to that young bride of you?" Noah blushed. "I may be a minister, but I know the desires of the flesh…and how they can cause longing." He wagged a finger at Bennet. "But make sure it is only with your wife!"

"Of course!" Noah laughed. "Father…" he paused, thinking. "In Odessa…there is a legend about my great grandfather…about how he was taken by the indians…" 

"The last major kidnapping in Texas history…" Hawkins said.

"Yes…I was asking my grandfather about it yesterday, and he told me something strange." Bennet's voice lowered to a whisper. "He claims Isaiah Ellis saved him." 

Father Hawkins nodded. "For years I have heard tales of Isaiah's supposed exploits. They are nothing but that, tales. Isaiah died in that church…end of story."

"I thought so…but imagine if he did…you said he had great sight…his descendents could have the same power…"

"Isaiah is dead." Father Hawkins said kindly yet firmly. "Don't let the dreams of people with special abilities send you down a dark path. Now…go visit with your grandfather, then return to that wife of yours."

"Of course…goodbye, Father." Noah said, still thinking about Isaiah and his potential heirs.

"Goodbye, Noah." Father Hawkins said, watching the man exit the church.

"Father Hawkins?" A young woman whispered, walking towards him quickly, her eyes large with fear. She had just entered the church after the congregation had left, a tiny blue bundle in her arms.

"What can I do for you, Meredith?"

"I…I don't know who else to turn to…" She gulped, eyes brimming with tears. "I…I thought I could…but when I look at him…" She and the Father had discussed this, the option, and Hawkins realized sadly that Meredith had decided, at last.

"I understand." Father Hawkins said, holding out his arms, accepting the bundle she held. He lifted the blanket, staring at the newborn. "He is a beautiful child, Meredith…Meredith?" Father Hawkins blinked as he noticed that Meredith was gone, leaving only him and the child standing in the church. "Hmmm…I am sorry, little one, that your mother did not stay…" he sighed.

"It is family tradition, I suppose."

Hawkins turned, finally noticing the ancient man that was still seated in the church, in the last pew, hidden from view when church was in session, but now visible.

"I don't…"

"Abandoned at birth…but destined to find better parents…and grander destinies." The man said, lifting his 100 year frame from the pew. Dressed in a black duster and black hat, the man's face may have been weathered by time…but those eyes…

"Isaiah?" Hawkins whispered in shock, glancing at the old man, then the baby, the child reaching out and trying to grab his nose.

"Perhaps as a middle name." The old man said lightly, his voice cracking with age as he spoke. "I've always been fond of the name Carter." He smirked slightly, before his tired eyes went red. "I can rest well…knowing the he is now here, at last…that he will redeem my family…" He looked at the babe, only he witnessing the child's eyes flashing silver. "Make sure that little one is put in a good home, Hawkins…he has a world of work ahead of him…"

"What do you mean?" Hawkins called out. "Is…is he the new Horsemen?"

Isaiah shook his head sadly. "no…no, with my death, the last of the Horsemen will be gone. The Seven Horns are coming…and the world is to survive, they will need that boy…they will need the Metatron."

And with that, Isaiah Ellis hobbled out of the church. Authorities would find him a week later in the desert, lying in the spot where his father's church had sat. His story was over.

Carter Isaiah Daniels's story…had just begun.


End file.
